


It's All Coming Back to Me Now

by writeskatelive



Category: Figure Skating - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Ice show, Reunion, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeskatelive/pseuds/writeskatelive
Summary: Two years ago, Ksenia Stolbova walked away from everything she had ever known - her home, her coach, and the partner who helped her reach her Olympic dream in a time long ago. After a heartbreaking betrayal, she returns to Moscow to skate in an ice show, where she crosses paths with her demons and finally faces the memories she's been running from.
Relationships: Ksenia Stolbova and Fedor Klimov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Ksenia ran her hands along the sides of her head, smoothing down the short wisps of hair around her ears. Her hair was perfectly fine, of course, and had looked equally fine fifteen minutes ago, but she refused to admit she was stalling. She just needed to look all right before she faced him.

She was wearing a new practice outfit. The deep purple tank top clung to her skin and crisscrossed in the back over a ridiculously expensive sports bra. The black leggings featured angular mesh cutouts that wrapped around her thighs to her ankles, just above her skates. The skates were old—the leather was scuffed and ivory rather than the bright white they’d once been.

Five months ago, she’d thrown all her training clothes into a bag, dropped it on the counter of a thrift store, and left behind everything that reminded her of the horrible thing that happened in the French Alps. Five months ago, when she’d walked out of that ski lodge, she’d promised herself she would sooner cut off both her legs and never step on the ice again than grovel at that man’s feet for a chance to compete. Five months ago, she’d admitted to herself that there was nothing left for her in that arena, no matter how much she still wanted to give.

Sasha Stepanova, who had been her biggest support system lately, had suggested she try skating in shows. “You can still share your love for the sport with the world, but you don’t have to worry about coaches or results,” she’d said over coffee a week after the incident. “I think it’d be good for you.”

Ksenia, who had always been addicted to the thrill of competition, wasn’t so sure about that. But she had nothing better to do, she still wanted to skate, and—most of all—she needed money. Sasha had signed her up for Averbukh’s latest show, which was based on the classic novel War and Peace. Russia’s ice shows always ended up being more like a grand theatrical performance instead of a skating exhibition, complete with props and flashy costumes.

Ksenia would be playing Liza Bolkonskaya, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky’s wife. She supposed it could’ve been worse—Max Trankov was playing a grumpy old man, Ivan Bukin was the rogue who tried to elope with the beautiful maiden, and Averbukh himself was General Kutuzov, who was frequently described in the book as excessively fat. At least Ksenia’s character was young, pretty, and well-liked. Until, of course, she died in childbirth in the first act.

And then there was the problem of the man playing her husband.

“Ksu?” A pretty face framed by long red hair peeked into the dressing room. In the past two years since Ksenia had seen her, Ekaterina Bobrova had retired and given birth to a son, but she still looked as radiant and vivacious as ever. “The practice starts in ten minutes.”

Ksenia swallowed. “I’ll be right out.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Ekaterina stepped up behind her in the mirror and grabbed Ksenia’s shoulders. “You’ll never believe the props they’re bringing in—they’ve got wooden horses, wagons, and even a cannon!” She beamed, as if she had swallowed the sun. Although she’d tried to figure it out for years, Ksenia had never understood how anyone could be as kind and joyous as Ekaterina.

Of course, it was easier to be kind and joyous when you were skating with someone you liked. Ekaterina and her partner Dmitri had teamed up as children, skated together for almost two decades, and parted on good terms when Ekaterina announced she was pregnant and wanted to retire. There had been no bitter argument, no coach blaming her for ruining everything, no slamming locker room doors so she could curl up on the other side and cry until she thought her eyes might never see properly again.

Even thinking about the split made Ksenia shiver, and Ekaterina noticed.

“Hey, don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.” She tickled Ksenia’s shoulders, forcing her to loosen up. “It’s going to be great. I just saw Trankov in his costume, and you wouldn’t believe how funny it is. Put a long beard on him and he really does look like an old man—it’s kind of scary, to be honest.”

One corner of Ksenia’s mouth turned up in a smile, but her face froze as the memory returned to her. The last time she’d spoken to Max, it hadn’t gone well. He, like everyone around her, blamed her for the split. He’d blamed her for getting banned from the Olympics, thus robbing Fedor of his dream. He’d blamed her for driving Nina Mozer insane with her aggressive personality. He’d blamed her for dragging Fedor through competition after competition until his spirit broke. And the worst part was that she knew he was right, and she blamed herself more than anyone.

“Don’t worry.” Ekaterina touched her cheek and gave her a warm, encouraging smile. She was only a few years older than Ksenia, but she had always been the mother figure of Team Russia. “You’ve got this.”

Ksenia took a deep breath and followed Ekaterina out to the ice. Everywhere she looked, people bustled around with costumes and props. The boards around the rink were slanted away from the ice so they didn’t obstruct the spectators’ view, and although the overhead lights were brightly shining right now, they would be using colorful spotlights for the actual performance.

Ekaterina slipped off her skate guards and swiped across the ice in a wide arc to Dmitri, who smiled as she glided to a stop. The entire cast of the show was out here except Averbukh himself, who was sitting at the edge of the ice and reading over the choreographer’s notes. Evgenia Medvedeva, who would be playing the heroine Natasha, took center stage while she practiced a series of beautiful spins. Mikhail Kolyada floated past with heavenly strokes and tried a triple lutz, but he tripped on the landing and laughed at his mistake. Elizaveta Tuktamysheva was rehearsing choreography while recording an Instagram live video. Max was posing in front of Averbukh in the extravagant blue costume of a Russian lord, and Ekaterina was right—the long beard really did make him look like an old man. Sasha was standing on Ivan’s leg in a stunning ice dance lift, Plushenko was blowing his nose, Adelina Sotnikova and Sergei Voronov were cracking jokes in the corner, and massive Anton Sikharulidze was trying his best to look like a tiny, bratty French emperor while landing double axels.

But Ksenia saw all of them as if they were characters in some TV show playing in the background. The only person she saw clearly was the man in the white t-shirt standing alone in the corner, arms folded, head bowed, his back to her. The sight of him awakened a thousand thoughts in her head at once, like tiny black dots rushing into her vision after standing up too fast, and she wanted to pass out.

“Coward,” she whispered. She had spent the past two weeks preparing for this moment. She had known he was going to be here, that he was playing Bolkonsky, that they were going to skate together. She had known about it when she’d signed up. She had no excuse to back out now.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said under her breath. If she stood there any longer, she would convince herself she couldn’t do it, and she would run. And she was done running from everything that scared her.

Keeping her head down, Ksenia tore off her skate guards and bolted across the ice to where he was standing. Her feet felt unsteady and uncontrollable under her body, and she nearly careened into Kolyada as she skidded to a stop six inches from those two black skates that belonged to the man she never thought she’d have to face again.

“Hey,” Fedor said softly.

She dragged her gaze up his long legs, his toned chest, his square shoulders. His chin flashed at the top of her vision, and she locked her eyes on the neckline of his t-shirt. She did not allow herself to look any higher. She didn’t want to see his face when he looked at her, see all the pain in his eyes as her last words to him echoed in his head. Or maybe he had forgotten she had even existed, tied every memory of her to an anchor and hurled it to the bottom of the sea.

“Hey,” she said, her voice dry.

Silence. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then held his hand out awkwardly. “I guess we should start practicing.”

She curled her fingers around his hand mechanically, like a cyborg trying to move its robotic parts. The warmth of his skin startled her, and a tingle ran up her arm. It was like walking into an old Mexican restaurant that had been redecorated under new owners and now served Japanese food: so much had changed, but it still felt familiar.

She knew she should speak, or start skating, or do something other than stand around holding his hand like an idiot. She searched for something to say, but he spoke first.

“Well, should we start with some crossovers?” From the lightness in his voice, she knew he was smiling at her, that soft smile he used after a bad performance when he wanted to stop her from bashing her head against the ice. He was trying to be friendly. After everything she’d done to him, he was still trying to make her feel at ease, and here she was, too much of a coward to even look at him.

“Yeah.” She forced her neck to move, tilting her head back until his face came into view, and almost startled from the sudden sight of him. Dark hair, shaved close on the sides but longer on top. Thick, wily brows that lent expression and character to his stoic face. Soft, beautiful brown eyes that sent calmness through her body with one look. A square jaw featuring a full but neatly trimmed beard. And a hopeful smile. Hopeful that she would say something, smile back, anything to close the eternal gap that yawned in the six inches between their faces.

He didn’t speak as he stepped behind her into the standard position for crossovers in pair skating—the lady in the front, the man in the back. He held her right wrist to the side and placed his left hand around her waist. She swallowed at the touch. For nine years, they had skated like this, and she had always felt safe in his strong, gentle hold. His hands were smaller than Andrei’s, but steadier, more refined.

Everyone was watching them. Ekaterina and Dmitri kept stealing glances between twizzles. Adelina, Liza, and Zhenya were all hovering at the edge of the ice, whispering. Sergei swooped past them under pretense of setting up for a lutz, but his head stayed turned in their direction as he passed, and he reached the end of the rink without even attempting a jump. Max’s eyes were closed, but Ksenia could read every thought in his head just by looking at him. He felt sorry for Fedor because he had to skate with the woman who’d broken his heart, and furious at Ksenia for coming back into his life after she had already hurt him so terribly.

“They’re all staring at us,” she said.

He laughed softly. “That’s probably because we’ve been standing in the middle of the ice for five minutes like we’ve forgotten how to skate.”

She pushed off with one foot and started moving. She felt Fedor lean along with her, mirroring her movements as she made her way around the ice. It was startling how quickly he fell in line—it had taken months for Andrei to adjust to her. As they turned a corner, her feet picked up speed, and he accelerated perfectly in sync.

By the time they finished one lap around the rink, the cold air had flushed Ksenia’s cheeks. Fedor released his hold, and she skated a few feet before stopping herself. That had felt…not terrible. Almost good.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” said Fedor. His face was serious, but his eyes had a quiet peacefulness that seemed to slip under her skin and ease the tension in her chest. “Should we try some lifts?”

The words triggered a distant memory, one she could never forget no matter how many times she shoved it into the shadows of her mind: a February morning in St. Petersburg eleven years ago, when their coach had told them to try some lifts together. That was the day the partnership of Stolbova and Klimov was forged, and for the next nine years since that moment, her name had been bound to his in some sort of arranged marriage until she could barely remember the Stolbova that existed before Klimov. Even after she’d realized there was no future for them, it had still broken her to walk away. In fact, looking at his kind, gentle face, she wondered if that piece of her had ever healed.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

He came up behind her again and placed both hands on her waist—warm, calm, dependable. Ksenia heard him inhale as he lifted her straight over his head, turning her so she was lying parallel to the ice. If he slipped, if his wrist gave way, if he lost concentration for a fraction of a second, she would crash at least seven feet and smash the back of her head against the ice. Slowly, she bent her legs and let her arms flow behind her, her back bending as she caught the blade of her right skate in one hand. Her head was tilted back, so all she could see were blurs of color as skaters swung past, upside down. Beneath her, Fedor’s feet started moving in a straight line, and the world moved with him.

Her body was tense from trying not to throw him off balance, but she was not afraid. It was the simplest of lifts—most junior pairs teams could do it with their eyes closed. And no matter what had happened between them, she still trusted Fedor.

“All right, you can let go of your skate now,” he said. “I’m going to set you down.”

Ksenia released the blade and uncurled her body as he lowered her to the ice, so softly her skates barely made a sound. When she looked up, he was smiling.

“Are you okay?” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m…I’m great, actually.”

His lips moved as if he was going to say something, but Averbukh shouted from his stool. “Okay, everyone, let’s clear the ice and start rehearsing the solo numbers. Plushenko, you’re up first.”

Fedor glanced around at the other skaters leaving the ice. “I guess that’s it, then.”

For a moment, his eyes fell on her, but he pushed off and glided to the edge of the rink. He skated with such raw speed, yet his movements were measured and graceful, never swaying out of control. He had always been full of incredible power—he had an unbreakable spirit and understood the world on a deeper level than she could ever know. He was capable of intense feeling, but he never let his emotions cloud his judgment or cause pain to another soul. Except once.

Ksenia remained where she stood, watching him as he joined the group clapping on skate guards and taking seats just behind the boards. She wasn’t sure whether the relief that flooded her body was because it was over, or because she had actually felt happy to see him again.


	2. Chapter 2

Averbukh had allowed the pairs and ice dancers to go back to the hotel for the next three hours while the single skaters rehearsed. He was a perfectionist when it came to choreography, so he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching the rehearsals and making changes to the programs.

In the meantime, Ekaterina had suggested they go for lunch at the hotel’s restaurant, a charming sandwich shop called the Merry Balalaika adorned with Russian folk décor. Everyone had agreed, including Ksenia—until she realized this meant spending a whole hour sitting at a table with Fedor.

She took a large bite out of her sandwich and chewed hard, trying to gnaw through the layers of ham, turkey, and vegetables. She’d even added cheese—now that her career was unofficially over, there was no reason to watch her weight anymore. Besides, any normal person would break down and order some cheese to ease the stress of skating with their ex-partner again.

The group had taken the large table in the center of the room, which could seat eight. Ksenia was between Sasha and Ekaterina, with Ivan on Sasha’s left. Across from them sat the other four men: Max, Fedor, Anton, and Dmitri.

“You know, I’ve always preferred turkey over ham,” said Max, his mouth full of bread. “Back in Perm, my mom used to make ham that was so salty we had to drink two glasses of milk after we ate, just to get rid of the aftertaste.”

Perm. The word made Ksenia draw in a sharp, quick breath. She kept her head down and stuffed another bite of her sandwich in her mouth, forcing herself to focus on chewing her food into small pieces.

“Of course, that was a long time ago.” Max took a long chug from his water bottle. “That was back when I was still training with the Tiukhovs—you know, that married couple who used to run a rink full of pairs. What are they up to these days, anyhow?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re still in Perm,” said Anton Sikharulidze. “Last I heard, they were collaborating with Nikolai Morozov at his new rink there.”

A shiver ran down Ksenia’s spine. Since that day in the French Alps, she had done her best to shut out every thought, every feeling, every object that reminded her of that name and the man who carried it. She reached for her water bottle and drained it in one shot, wishing she had thought to fill it with vodka.

“I still don’t understand,” said Ivan. “Why did Morozov move to Perm in the first place? No offense, but there’s not a whole lot out there. I thought he had a pretty good gig going in Moscow, not to mention the rink in New Jersey.” He winced and let out a little groan. Sasha had kicked him under the table.

“It’s ‘cause of his girl,” said Max. “She wanted to skate with some guy from Perm, so Morozov just up and moved. He even took his daughter with him. It must’ve been pretty serious—or at least, as serious as Nikolai Morozov can be when it comes to women.”

Ksenia’s face burned, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to shrivel up and die in her chair or punch Max in the face. Maybe both.

“Speaking of coaching,” Fedor said quickly, “did you all see the training camp Tanya Volosozhar set up? She’s just amazing.”

Max beamed. “I didn’t marry her for nothing! You know, she really is dedicated to teaching those little kids. They love her like she’s part of the family, and they have good reason to. The other day, I was telling her she needs to take it easy—I mean, after all, she is six months pregnant—or is it seven?”

“Six,” Fedor said quietly.

Ksenia finally dared to glance up. Fedor was absorbed in eating his sandwich, nodding politely as Max gushed about Tanya’s success as a coach, but his face was sorry. He had spoken up to protect her. He had changed the subject to save her from humiliation.

How much did he know of the situation? How much gossip had trickled from Perm to Moscow? Did he know how that man had forced her to make the most difficult decision of her life? Could he sense the raw edges of the open wound gaping over her heart? Was he even aware that she no longer lived in Perm?

These questions haunted her as she finished her sandwich while Max droned on about the pros and cons of life as a coach. No matter how brash and overbearing he could be, Maxim Trankov was not a malicious person. He could admit his own faults, and Ksenia knew he would throw himself into the jaw of a bear to protect his wife or their little daughter Lika. He simply spoke whatever thoughts came to mind, even if he was currently thinking that his mother-in-law was a meddling fool.

“Well, that was fun,” said Ekaterina, brushing the crumbs from her fingers. “I don’t know about you, but I needed that. Maybe we could do it again tomorrow. Unless, of course, none of you enjoyed this at all.”

She winked and rose from her seat, and the other skaters started to follow. Sasha touched Ksenia’s shoulder before striding out alongside Ivan, narrowing her eyes at Max on the way out.

Ksenia gathered up her water bottle and her jacket before she noticed Fedor hovering over the table. The other skaters were all gone.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For what Max said. You…you know what he’s like.”

“It’s fine.” She pushed back her chair and stood. She tried to put her jacket on, but she slipped her arm through the wrong sleeve and had to flip it around before it went on correctly.

“Actually, it’s not really fine. He…he should watch his mouth. I know he doesn’t think…but he should.”

She sighed. “I’m all right.”

“Well, that’s good.” He glanced down. “I just…I’m really sorry.”

The regret in his voice surprised her. She slung her bag over her shoulder and started to walk out. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“No, I’m not talking about Max.”

Her body froze. Slowly, she turned around to face him.

“I meant about what happened between us.” He swallowed. “About that last month before…before it ended.”

Ksenia tried to speak, but her tongue felt cold and dead in her mouth. She had fought so hard to forget the entire first half of 2018—the Olympic ban, the leg injury, the argument with Nina Mikhailovna Mozer, and most of all, the impenetrable wall that had formed between her and Fedor. Memories prickled through every inch of her body, as if her hands had been numb and feeling had finally returned. The restaurant seemed to be tilting around her, and suddenly she needed fresh air.

“I—I have to go,” she stammered. She stumbled out the door, never looking back to see if Fedor followed, watched her, or just walked away.

It had been February 16, the morning after the pairs’ free skate in PyeongChang. Aljona Savchenko and Bruno Massot had just been crowned Olympic champions, and social media was abuzz with photos of them standing victorious atop the podium, a picture of Olympic glory. The same Olympic glory Ksenia had spent the past four years fighting for, the same Olympic glory that had been stolen from her barely three weeks ago.

When she arrived at the rink, she was furious. She grabbed Fedor’s hand so tightly he winced and practically dragged him around the ice for the first half hour of the practice. The rink was empty—Mozer, Vladislav, Tarasova/Morozov, and Zabiiako/Enbert were all in Korea, wearing those awful white-and-gray uniforms like prisoners in this cruel game. The air seemed to be humming with urgency. She couldn’t just lie down while the world took everything she had given her life for. She needed to fight. The Olympic committee could ban her from their stupid political show, but they couldn’t stop her from winning a World title next month.

She launched herself into a throw jump too hard and felt her leg snap as she landed. Fedor called for help, and by the time the ambulance arrived, her ankle had swollen to the size of her thigh.

After the doctor had bound her leg, Fedor had come to her room and sank onto the stool beside her bed. She expected him to smile, trying to cheer her up, but his face was grim, stoic, tired.

“How long will it take?” he said.

Ksenia swallowed. “Three months.”

Fedor cursed under his breath and rubbed his temples. In the dim, greenish light of the hospital room, his face looked old and exasperated. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“It’s okay. It’s only a ligament tear.” She smiled, trying to ignore the shiver skittering across her skin. There was something different in his features, and it wasn’t just exhaustion or frustration.

“I know.” He clenched his fist. His face was tight from trying to contain some powerful emotion. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to work.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that much.” She frowned at her ankle, which was still swollen so big she probably wouldn’t be able to wear jeans for the next week. “Honestly, I swear we’re cursed.”

Fedor closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. His face was tense, and he bit his lip. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Ksenia blinked. She heard his words and sensed there was something off about them, but their full meaning didn’t compute in her brain. “We’ll get through this.”

He winced, and when he opened his eyes, they were shot through with pain, as if he was staring into the sun. “Ksenia…” He lay his hand on her knee, the uninjured leg. “I don’t think you understand.”

A cold, nervous laugh shook her throat. “What’s there to understand? We had a horrible season. I think that’s pretty clear.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He blinked twice and swallowed, lowering his eyes. “I want to retire.”

The word seemed to crackle in the air, something foreign and unwelcome, like poison in the bloodstream. Ksenia opened her mouth to speak, but the words dried on her lips. His face was turned down, but she knew that drawn brow, those sorry eyes, that locked jaw. He had made up his mind.

“You—you can’t.” She grasped the hand that was lying on her knee. “It’s not the end. My leg will heal, and then we’ll come back next season and win Worlds. Savchenko and Massot won’t be there, and Duhamel and Radford are retiring. We could—”

“No.” Fedor raised his head, and she pulled back. His face seemed carved of granite, stern and cold and unbending as he drew his hand away from her leg. In his features, she couldn’t find any trace of the carefree, baby-faced boy in the striped Addams Family costume she had called her partner. For the first time in her life, she felt truly intimidated by him.

“Fedya, please.” Her voice was trembling. “We can’t just quit, not now. We still have so much we can do.”

She reached for him, but he rose from the seat, crossed the room, and stared out the window at the parking lot. “How long are we going to keep playing this game? How many years do you want me to run on this hamster wheel? When will you finally realize that enough is enough?”

Ksenia twisted in the bed, scowling at his back. “Enough for who?”

“For me. I’ve tried. Every morning, I wake up and I tell myself that things will get better as long as I just keep working. I keep thinking that someday, all of this will pay off. I keep waiting for that moment when everything just comes together and it’s like a perfect fairytale where everyone lives happily ever after.” He raised his fist to the window as if to punch it, then opened his hand and pressed it against the glass. “But this isn’t a fairytale, Ksu. And I can’t waste the rest of my life hoping for something that won’t happen.”

“But it could happen! Look at Savchenko.”

He inhaled a sharp breath. “Look at all the other people who didn’t make it that far.”

“We made it that far! Don’t you even remember Sochi?” Her pulse was thudding in her neck like a migraine, but the memory of the Olympics filled her heart with sweet, delicious hope. They had come in as underdogs, skated two flawless performances, and walked away with silver medals. Even thinking about that intoxicating feeling made her want to race back to the rink and skate, never mind her ankle.

“Yes, I do.” His voice was strained. “Winning that silver medal was the best day of my life. It was like some crazy miracle, and I’m grateful for that. But we’re not going to get that lucky a second time.”

“How can you say that?” Ksenia hated staring at his back, unable to see his expression. If she could’ve walked, she would’ve jumped from the bed and shook him by his shoulders until he admitted that the whole idea of retiring was stupid, ridiculous, and nothing more than a passing thought. “You can’t just walk out like that.”

“Do you think I want to do this?” Fedor’s voice scaled higher. “Do you think I want to leave this sport after everything we went through? You have no idea how many times I’ve prayed to God that things could be different. But they aren’t, and I don’t know if they’re meant to be.”

His voice cracked on the last three words, and it shattered something in her chest. Fedor had always been the quiet one, the strong one, the cool salve that calmed her burns. She had barreled through life like a tornado, spiraling out of control and taking down everything in her path, but he was the sturdy hand that grabbed her wrist the second before she slipped off the edge. In her devastation and rage following the Olympic ban, she had never considered how this must have hurt him. They had stolen his dream too.

“Fedya.” She took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. The Olympics, this—everything. But I still have so much to give. I have medals I haven’t won yet. I have programs in my body just waiting to be performed. I’m not ready to leave this sport.”

“Then don’t.” His voice was soft, but there was no trace of his usual warmth. “If you want to keep trying, then go on. But I can’t come with you.”

The thought made her shiver. She had never considered skating with anyone but Fedor. From the moment she had taken his hand nine years ago in St. Petersburg, she had known they had something unique, something incredible, something that could never be replaced. For the first time, she saw herself skating in her mind with a silvery, translucent phantom partner. She could not picture his face.

Something snapped in her core, releasing an overwhelming wave of emotion, and tears bled down her face. She gasped hard and doubled over, losing any sense of control as they soaked the cheap blue fabric of her hospital gown. It felt like someone was punching her in the stomach with iron gauntlets.

“Ksenia.” She sensed Fedor turning around and coming closer, but he didn’t touch her. “Ksenia, I’m sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she screamed. “I can’t just go find another partner. They don’t fall from the sky. There’s no one else.”

His voice softened. “Please, don’t be angry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be angry?” She sat up straight in the bed, her vision blurry. “You literally just told me you’re retiring and now you tell me not to be angry? That’s what they all say. ‘Don’t be angry, it’s not all that bad.’ ‘Don’t be angry, you can try again in four years.’ ‘Don’t be angry, they’re just getting better scores because they’re young and they have a quad twist.’” She sucked in a breath. “Well, you know what? I am angry. I’m so angry I could tear everyone to pieces. And you can’t stop me.”

“Stop!” Fedor put his hands on her shoulders, but she shoved him away. “Please, just listen for a minute. This isn’t an easy choice for me.”

“Shut up!” Spittle sprayed her lip as she screamed. “You and Nina Mikhailovna and Zhenya and Natasha—all of you need to just shut up. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t do it. I’m not that stupid.”

He closed his eyes and turned away, towards the door. He lingered at the foot of her bed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Of course, he wasn’t defeated. He could throw his skates in a trash compactor and retire tomorrow, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. No, he felt defeated because he felt like he was failing her.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”

Fedor looked back at her. His chin was trembling, and his damp eyes reminded her of a man forced to put down his beloved dog. “I can’t watch you do this to yourself, Ksu.”

“Fedya,” she said, but he had already reached the door, and she could not follow him.

For the next hour, Ksenia lay paralyzed in the hospital bed. Her chest hiccuped with sobs, but her eyes would not produce tears, as if her body was too dead to release any sign of human life. She felt nothing—not the throbbing of her leg, not the fury at the Olympic injustice, not the betrayal of Fedor’s choice. Her cold, empty soul sank into the darkness, relieved to finally succumb.


	3. Chapter 3

The memory burned in Ksenia’s head, as brilliant and painful as ever, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the deep ache spreading through her body. She focused on the sound of her own breathing—ragged and anxious at first, then slowly calming into a steadier rhythm.

She was lying on the bed at the hotel, her head resting on one arm. She had collapsed here half an hour ago and forced herself to revisit every last detail of that memory, no matter how painful it was. Talking to Fedor after lunch had ripped open a dozen scabs, and the only way to heal them once and for all was to face the truth.

Since that day in the hospital, she had sheltered herself from the full impact of the memory. She had altered facts, convincing herself that Fedor had been heartless, almost gleeful to see her break. She had erased the part where she’d pleaded with him, ashamed to admit she had tried to grovel to save the partnership. She had created this neatly packaged lie in her mind and told the new story to herself until she believed it.

For the past two years, she had been running from him. She had told herself she was being strong and independent, finally cutting herself free from the shackles of the Mozer group, but the moment she’d left, she’d thrown herself headfirst into Nikolai’s snare and lost herself in a fantasy that was doomed to crumble. Ignorance and irresponsibility could never create true happiness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, although there was no one else in the room. “It was all my fault.”

She sat up in bed and glanced at the clock. Only twenty minutes until Averbukh would want to see her at the rink. She stumbled to the mirror and almost laughed at her disheveled hair. Her body felt full of light and freedom.

When she arrived at the rink, the skaters were in the middle of rehearsing a scene. Ekaterina and Dmitri were arguing with Mikhail, who was playing their son, while their “daughter” Evgenia and “niece” Adelina hovered nearby. The skaters who weren’t in this scene were sitting in the front row of chairs, but Fedor wasn’t among them.

Averbukh, still perched on his stool at the edge of the ice, noticed her and waved her to come over. “Stolbova! Great practice today.”

“Thanks.” She stopped about two feet from him and glanced around. Fedor came out of the men’s locker room and sat in one of the chairs to tie his skates.

“You know, I have to thank you for being a good sport about this,” said Averbukh. “I would totally understand if you didn’t want to skate with him for personal reasons.”

Her neck prickled. “There’s no problem.”

Averbukh raised a surprised eyebrow. “Well, that’s good. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right. Liza and Zhenya were talking about how good you both looked out there. Honestly, it’s great seeing the old teams back together. Who knows, maybe I can get Ilinykh and Katsalapov back together in time for my performance of Anna Karenina!”

Ksenia didn’t respond. The skaters were done performing their scene and Fedor had stepped onto the ice, wearing a black t-shirt with gray sleeves instead of the white one from the morning practice. His eyes darted across the arena until they fell on her, and she could’ve sworn he smiled, just a little.

“Oh, there’s your lovely partner now. You’d better get out there and join him before he pairs up with Zhenya or Liza! I heard Liza joking she could throw him herself!”

Ksenia couldn’t help smiling as she took the ice. She couldn’t remember a time when walking had felt more natural than skating. The ice was her home, and no matter how much darkness tried to torment her soul, it remained pure and white and clean under her feet.

“Hi,” she said to Fedor as she drew to a stop in front of him.

“Hi.” He smiled at her—a polite greeting smile, but still a smile. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “Pretty good.” Of course he was asking. He probably wanted to know why she had ran out of the sandwich shop when he’d mentioned the split. Her heart felt full enough to burst, and for a moment, she thought about telling him everything. But she bit her lip and focused on the peacefulness of his eyes.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” He smiled again, a bit more naturally. “Averbukh says we need to run through our program. Did you review the notes he gave you?”

“Of course I did.” She winced at how defensive she sounded. “I mean, it’d be kind of funny if we showed up and had no idea what we were doing.”

“That’s kind of the fun of show skating, though. Everyone gets dressed up in ridiculous costumes and plays fictional people who’ve been dead for two hundred years. I’d be concerned if someone actually did know what they were doing.”

She smiled. He’d always had such a matter-of-fact sense of humor. “Well, let’s try to run through this program at least once so we can at least pretend we know what we’re doing.”

He smiled at her, which made her smile harder, and something shifted inside her, as if the jagged pieces of her heart were finally sliding back into place.

By the time they finished the practice, Ksenia was smiling so hard she couldn’t stop. They’d spent an hour on the ice together, but it felt like ten minutes.

“All right, well done!” Averbukh shouted from the sidelines. “Sasha, Vanya, you’re up next.”

That was their signal to stop skating, to get off the ice, to go their separate ways once again. For some reason, the thought pinched her heart. She glanced up at Fedor. He had already started skating towards the gap in the boards.

She forced her legs to carry her off the ice as Stepanova and Bukin took their places. What was wrong with her? Yesterday, she’d been too scared to even look him in the eye, and now she wanted to stay with him after the practice was over? Maybe the full impact of the chaos she’d seen in the past two years had finally hit her and she was truly losing it.

“Hey, do you want to watch the rest of the practices?”

She had just lifted her foot to step off the ice, but the voice startled her, and her toepick caught the short carpet of the floor. She flailed wildly, but someone caught her under her arms, and she let out a small gasp.

“Careful there, clumsy,” said Fedor, helping her regain her footing. She turned her face away, her cheeks blazing. “I didn’t mean to distract you. Are you all right?”

Ksenia’s legs were shaking, her head was spinning, and her heart tapped out a frantic beat like a woodpecker rapping its beak against a cedar house. “Y—yeah, I think so. I’m fine.” She tried to take a step, but the ground swayed under her, and he caught her arm before she faceplanted. Gently, he steered her towards the empty chairs in the front row and let her sink into the nearest one.

She was fine—not injured, for once, and not ill. It was a stupid stumble, a misstep that could’ve happened to anyone. In fact, the dizziness and unsteadiness was coming from her mortification. Mortification at making a fool out of herself in front of him.

He sat down next to her, but didn’t fuss over her—just sat there quietly and stole glances to make sure she was all right. She sat up straight and crossed her legs, attempting to look like nothing had happened.

“That’s a really good program,” he said. “They’ve really improved a lot over the past couple years, haven’t they?”

She blinked, and it took her a minute to realize he was watching Stepanova and Bukin skating. “Yeah, they’re great.”

“Totally. It’s so nice to see them back on their feet and thriving, especially after…” His face fell, but she knew what he’d been about to say. Bukin had been the other skater who’d fallen under the IOC’s ax before the last Olympics. “You know, I’m coaching a new junior pair, and the girl reminds me a lot of Sasha—she’s serious, but strong, and she has such a captivating presence.”

“So coaching life suits you well?”

He shrugged. “It’s good. Just different than what I expected.”

“Do you ever miss competing?”

“Well, that’s a difficult question to answer.” He frowned and leaned back in his seat. “I don’t miss the injuries. You know, it’s really nice having two working arms for once. I don’t miss trying to keep up with Germany’s own little mother of dragons and her mighty French brute, or the Emperor and Empress of China and their quad twist. And I certainly don’t miss sitting in a lab at two in the morning, trying to pee in a cup while some grumpy-looking WADA official watches to make sure I’m doing it right.” He laughed, a bit regretfully. “But I do miss parts of it. I miss traveling all the time. I mean, I still get to join Nina Mikhailovna’s group for the summer camps, and sometimes I accompany my pairs, but it’s not the same. Is that weird?”

He looked at her, his face earnest. It wasn’t a casual expression, it was a question—as if he felt awkward about his perception of life and wanted her approval to make him feel better.

“No,” she said. “I get it.”

“Really? Thanks. I just…back when I was still skating, I used to think being a coach would solve all my problems. I mean, no injuries, no mother of dragons, no peeing in a cup—sounds like a nice life.” He smiled. “But there’s a lot more to it. I never thought I’d have to be arranging flight schedules and picking up passports for six kids. Sometimes I feel like more of a dad than a teacher.”

“Well, Max seems to have the dad thing all sorted out. You could ask him for tips.”

He sighed. “But that’s the thing. I’m happy with my life, don’t get me wrong. I’m lucky to be working for a good coach like Nina Mikhailovna, and I try my best to give good advice at those ISU development workshops she’s always sending me to. But sometimes…I see Max out there with Tanya and Lika, and I hear him talking about the new baby, and I suddenly feel like I’m not doing anything with my life.”

She tilted her head, considering. “It’s just different.”

Fedor ran his hand through his hair. “It’s weird. When Lika was first born, I was thanking my lucky stars that I wasn’t in Max’s shoes, because there was no way I was ready for that kind of responsibility. Honestly, I don’t even know if it’s the baby that makes me want what he has. I think it’s just that feeling of two people creating something amazing together, being part of something that matters.”

“Well, have you ever thought about settling down?”

“Yeah, I have.” His eyes drifted to the ice, where Stepanova and Bukin were doing an elegant spin. “But I haven’t found anyone I could see myself with for a lifetime. Finding a wife is a lot like finding a skating partner—everything has to match, or the partnership won’t hold up.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Ksenia mumbled under her breath.

Fedor laughed, but his features fell still a moment later. He turned his head towards her and stared straight into her eyes—soft brown eyes into sharp brown eyes, melting the cold edges of the imaginary shield she clung to. “Ksu.”

The name made her heart jump. He hadn’t called her that name in years. Not since before the ban had happened, before the arguments and the split, before she had stormed out of the rink and sworn never to speak to him again.

“Ksu.” Fedor leaned in and placed his hand over hers on the armrest of the chair. “No matter what happened between us, I do wish you luck in whatever you want to do in the future. I hope Novoselov is a good partner, and I hope Morozov can help you achieve everything you want from this sport.”

His voice was quiet, kind, gentle as morning dew settling on flower petals, but it destroyed her. It was like swallowing bleach. It was like running steel wool across open cuts. It was like stabbing herself with a dozen iron knives, then packing salt into every fraction of space under the skin. She tried to breathe, but her lungs were clogged, closing faster and faster until black-and-white dots pulsed in her vision.

“I really do mean it,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t know much about what you’ve been up to in Perm, but I’m sure whatever you, Novoselov, and Morozov are working on, it’ll be great.”

She swayed to her feet and managed to take four steps before her eyes stung to life with tears. At least he couldn’t see. He would never understand anyways. There were so many things she could never explain to him, so many dark corners of her soul that his simple, innocent heart would never comprehend.

“Ksenia, please.” His voice was desperate. “I don’t know what happened there, but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring something up. Please, just stop.”

For a moment, she considered turning around. She thought about throwing herself into his warm embrace and telling him everything, even if everyone in the arena was watching. She thought about releasing that knot of frustration and betrayal that throbbed in her ribcage and pulled tight every time she breathed. She thought about taking a sledgehammer to the stone dam around her heart, letting the truth run wild and free until it washed away the burn of that horrible day in the Alps.

Instead, she ran.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days passed in a blur of rehearsals, costume fittings, and short interviews with local reporters to boost last-minute ticket sales. After many rounds of choreographic revisions, Averbukh declared the show as flawless as a show could be, just in time for opening night.

The performers started ducking into the dressing rooms to put on their costumes before the show, but Averbukh grabbed Ksenia’s arm before she could follow them.

“I have to thank you for bringing in such a great crowd for the event.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t have much else to do. I mean, not that I didn’t want to skate in your show, but it’s—it’s no trouble.”

“Well, I appreciate having you here all the same.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “But that’s not what I meant. I was talking about how you brought in all the media attention for the show.”

“And how did I do that?” She tried to smile playfully, but there was a secret behind his words that made her squirm.

“Oh, you don’t have to play dumb here. Bringing Nikolai Morozov and his daughter all the way from Perm to come and see my show on opening night? I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

The words sounded like running water, crackling lightning, or falling trees, an unintelligible cacophony of noises that didn’t fit together into sentences. She shook her head, certain they didn’t mean what she thought they meant.

“He’s not—he’s not actually here, as in, coming to see the show tonight, right? ‘Cause that—that would be awkward.”

Averbukh grinned. “He sure is. He texted me just an hour ago, saying they arrived safely in Moscow. Annabelle can’t wait to see the show—apparently she’s a bit of a Medvedeva fangirl.”

Ksenia wasn’t conscious of any feeling in her body below her neck. She barely processed her lips forming the words “I have to go” before she turned away.

In the flurry of colorful silk, no one noticed her slipping into the women’s locker room. Ekaterina was twirling around in a silver wig to disguise her as the old Countess Rostova, and Sasha was adorned in a crimson costume and rich lipstick, perfectly outfitted for her role as the femme fatale Helene. Evgenia stood at the center in a stunning white dress, her long dark hair woven with dozens of flower-shaped pins and coiled like a crown around her brow.

Ksenia saw none of it. She locked the door of the dressing room in the far corner of the room, sank onto the bench, and buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t breathe, and every inch of her skin felt cold and damp enough to drop away from the bone. She should have gone outside for fresh air, but at least here, no one could see her.

Why, of all the places a man like Nikolai Morozov could be on a Friday night, was he going to a production of War and Peace on ice?

It had to be her. He had always complained that ice shows were nothing but a bunch of idiots flapping around in ridiculous costumes and acting out nursery rhymes. He’d always preferred a night at home with a bottle of champagne…and her. To be honest, she was surprised he wasn’t bringing a new girlfriend.

Under her shock and panic, she kicked herself hard. Five months had passed, and even the mention of his name still made her forget how to speak.

Fedor had never asked why she had run away after that practice, but ever since then, he’d looked at her with a new softness, an understanding that something had broken her deep inside, and she had not yet recovered. If she told him the truth, he would think she was incredibly stupid. He would realize that she had done this to herself, and his sympathy would turn to regret. Regret that he had let himself care about such a fool.

“Come on, girls, the show’s about to start.” Ekaterina’s bright, confident voice echoed on the other side of the door. “Let’s go out there and party like it’s 1805!”

Dressing room doors swung open and fabric rustled as the ladies hurried out of the dressing room. The footsteps had almost faded away before Adelina exclaimed, “Wait, where’s Ksenia?”

Murmuring. Footsteps coming back to the dressing room, then Sasha’s voice. “She must be still getting dressed. I’ll go check on her.”

Ksenia took a deep breath and lifted her head. She was going to be fine. She was going to pretend she had been getting dressed this whole time. She would not let them—and more importantly, him—know just how much that time in Perm had changed her.

She stood up and took her costume off the hook. It was a gray dress trimmed with velvet ribbons in a stunning shade of violet. The bodice was fashioned in the style of the time—a deep round neckline edged with white scallops, with laces crisscrossing up from the waist. The skirt was made of light material that fell into whispery folds and spun dramatically when she turned, and the hem fluttered a few inches below her knees, allowing her to skate freely. The hairpiece was deceptively clever: a small, pearl-studded maroon cap attached to an elegant black wig that hid the pins, clips, and hairnet securing it to her head.

She had just pulled off her practice clothes and slithered into the dress when Sasha knocked on the door. “Hey, Ksu, are you coming?”

“Just a minute. My costume’s giving me some trouble.”

“Do you need some help?” Sasha’s voice softened, as if she didn’t want the other girls to hear. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me help. But the show’s starting in ten minutes.”

“I’m all right.” Ksenia zipped up the back of the dress, then sat down and scrambled into the pale gray stockings that Averbukh had insisted would look perfect with the sash on Fedor’s military uniform. “Just hang on.”

“All right, but don’t be too long. I’ll tell Averbukh you’ll be out in a minute.”

Sasha’s footsteps skittered away as Ksenia laced up her skates and fiddled with the hat. The costume was much flashier than her usual ice attire, but she had refused to let Averbukh stick a feather in the cap. The last thing she needed was to look like a jaunty pen holder.

Outside, the grand overture blared. She adjusted the hat once more, feeling more like Mary Poppins than an imperial Russian princess, and ran out to join the group.

Averbukh had spared no expense on the orchestra for the event—he’d hired a pianist, a full brass section, half a dozen percussionists, two cellists, and the renowned violinist Edvin Marton to perform the opening theme. They were all hidden in a pit just behind the massive backdrops and lights. As she stumbled out into the auditorium, the lights were dimmed to cast a midnight blue haze over everything. She couldn’t see five feet in front of her, and she bumped into someone as she came to a stop near the edge of the ice.

They had already rehearsed this a dozen times. The overture would play for five minutes before the lights brightened to reveal Averbukh at the center of the ice, draped in the military uniform of General Kutuzov. From behind him, Anton Sikharulidze would appear atop a warhorse (yes, Averbukh had really hired actual horses for some of the scenes) in the role of Napoleon. They would muse about what it meant to be a great leader while the other skaters scrambled into place and the volunteers brought in the props for scene 2. Ksenia wasn’t going to be the one to tell Averbukh that in Tolstoy’s novel, they had skipped the great leader speech and gone straight to the gossip party.

Someone brushed against her shoulder, and she instinctively stepped back until the hand closed around hers. It was Fedor.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Again.”

“You have a way of doing that,” she mumbled.

Neither one spoke. In the darkness, she could barely make out the outline of his shoulder and the side of his face. She had seen his uniform yesterday; it was a rich blue jacket with silver epaulets and a gray sash bearing the crest of the fictional Bolkonsky family. His costume required no hairpiece, although he would wear a miniature, lightweight version of a soldier’s helmet for the battle sequences. Liza had been joking that the cap would likely fall off the moment he took off for a double axel, recounting a hilarious story of when she wore a sexy flight attendant’s costume for a Britney Spears exhibition program and ended up losing her hat several times (and almost lost her bra, she’d said with a sassy wink, but that was a story for another day). But Ksenia had no idea what kind of expression he wore, whether he felt comfortable standing there with her, whether he sensed her anxiety, whether he knew the source.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

“I’m scared,” she exhaled under her breath.

As soon as the words left her lips, she winced. That was the last thing she ever let herself admit before she took the ice. She was supposed to project confidence, strength, fearlessness. She couldn’t afford to humiliate herself out there.

“Me too,” he said.

The words were so surprising she took a step back, nearly breaking his grip on her hand. “What did you say?”

“I’m nervous. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this kind of thing.”

The lights raised from the deep blue to a blinding white, and his face flashed bright and clear in front of her. He was looking straight at her, his eyes fastened on hers with a surprising intensity. His hand was shaking in hers, but his gaze was focused, magnetic, unbreakable. As she stared back at him, she felt power coursing into her limbs, forcing her to stand taller, breathe deeper, match the strength she saw in his eyes.

And then she realized there were much worse things one could say before a show than “I’m scared.”

“Nikolai and I broke up.”

His brows pulled together in confusion, but he maintained eye contact. “What?”

“I dumped him back in January. Because he cheated.”

As soon as the words left her lips, her limbs went cold. It was as if someone had plunged a wide knife into her stomach, and she had grown so used to the pain that she could almost forget it. Pulling it out sent blood gushing from the wound, too much to staunch, and her shaking legs nearly slid out from underneath her. But Fedor’s hand didn’t let her slip.

He blinked slowly, trying to process this, then shook his head. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

She swallowed, focusing on the feeling of her feet firmly planted under her body so she wouldn’t fall. “After Andrei got injured, Nikolai and I went on a skiing trip to the French Alps. He said he wanted to surprise me.” A bitter laugh burned in her throat. “Well, let’s just say I was definitely surprised when I came back to the cabin early and found him in the Jacuzzi with the hotel maid. So I took the plane tickets and my luggage and I left him on the top of a mountain.”

Fedor’s eyebrows arched so steeply they almost met above his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ksenia’s hand was sweating under his, but she felt strangely calm. She had spent so long trying to hide the truth, as if somehow Nikolai’s inability to interact with any beautiful young woman without trying to seduce her made her an idiot. But now that the words had been spoken, she felt giddy, wild, reckless.

“Because it’s true,” she said.

Fedor stared at her for several minutes, his expression unreadable. His mouth was turned downward in a frown, not so much in displeasure as it was in confusion. His brows were still drawn, trying to comprehend each word she’d said and piece them together into a coherent story. His eyes were soft and emotional, but not with pity—it was almost admiration.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“Don’t be. It was the best decision I made in my life.”

For the past five months, the truth had felt like a noose around her neck, choking the life out of her with every second that passed. Speaking those words was like taking a knife to every fiber of the rope that bound her to the gallows. Her throat felt tight and her chest shook with something that felt almost like a sob, a silent release deep inside her soul.

In front of them, Ekaterina and Dmitri stepped onto the ice. It was their turn next.

“Are you ready?” Ksenia said.

She didn’t need to look at Fedor to know he was.


	5. Chapter 5

The show was a hit.

Ksenia couldn’t stop grinning as she made her way to the women’s dressing room. The crowd had given them a standing ovation after the encore, and Averbukh, Plushenko, and Medvedeva were still out there taking their final bows.

Five feet from the dressing room door, a hand snapped around her arm. “Hey, Fedor, watch—”

She froze. Shorter than Fedor. Slicked black hair. A sickening smile and flushed cheeks from too much vodka. Shifty eyes she had sworn to gouge out if she ever saw them wander in her direction again.

“Ksu, Ksu, Ksu,” said Nikolai. “Long time, no see.”

She hissed at the nickname. Ksu was a happy, affectionate girl with a forgiving heart. She was not Ksu right now.

She tried to pull her arm free, but he tightened his grip and pulled, sending her staggering. It was probably a good thing he’d managed to restrain one arm, or she would’ve knocked him over and clawed his face with her nails.

“Get your hands off me,” she spat.

He frowned. “Now, Ksu, there’s no need to be so curt. I seem to remember a time when you were begging me to put my hands on you.”

“Shut up.” Ksenia scowled, contemplating whether she should punch him with her left fist. She could land a solid hit right across his disgusting mouth. Or maybe she could blacken his eyes until he wouldn’t even be able to see another pretty girl for a month.

“Ah, I love that.” He ran his eyes over her body, smirking at the costume. “That’s quite the outfit. I suppose you’ve made your peace working in showbiz?”

She stole a glance to the left, then the right. No one was coming in or out of the dressing room, and the corridor twisted at an angle so no one could see them from the main hall. “That’s none of your business.”

Nikolai shrugged, still maintaining his hold on her arm. “Well, it was certainly charming.” He stepped closer, and she stumbled back towards the wall of the corridor. “Ksenia, I know you better than this. You were made for greatness, not for running around in these ridiculous rags with these fools like some traveling circus act.”

She gasped, a dozen retorts piling up on her tongue, but he kept talking.

“I mean, really, it’s amusing. The costume isn’t even as bad as I thought it would be—not half as embarrassing as Napoleon out there. And I’ll admit, you did a great job. Too bad you got stuck playing the fancy broad who dies in the first act. Why, you even dragged Klimov into this mess just to add to the drama.”

Rage burned in her throat, and she ripped her arm free. The sudden force threw him off balance and made him trip, but his mouth didn’t falter.

“Come on, you can’t truly be satisfied living like this. Really, crawling back to your old partner? Seems to me you don’t know when to leave the water under the bridge instead of going for a swim in it.”

“Oh, is that why you’re here?” Ksenia’s hands curled into fists, and she started walking a tight circle around him, her whole body vibrating with energy. “Is that why you made yourself sit through this horribly boring show, to grovel on your knees and beg me to take you back?”

He shrugged. “Well, that, and I needed a good excuse to keep Annabelle away from that fool she brought to dinner last night. It’s really convenient when you can kill two birds with one stone. But seriously, Ksu, you could do so much more. You could be—”

“This is the part where you shut up.”

Nikolai blinked and licked his lip with the tip of his tongue, a surprisingly delicate, feminine gesture. “Excuse me?”

“I have nothing to prove to you.” Her limbs were pulsing with something warm, bright, fearless. “I don’t care what you think I can do, or what I should do. I can skate in as many shows as I please with anyone I want.” She lay her hand on his chest and hooked her fingers around the thick collar of his ivory cashmere turtleneck. “It’s over, Nikolai. It’s done, and nothing you say to me will make me change my mind.”

He blinked slowly. His eyebrows formed a sharp steeple, and his mouth fell open a fraction. For once, he had no carefully rehearsed words to confuse her and convince her she was overreacting. He had come to this show with the confidence that he would leave with her on his arm, and he had not prepared a speech in case she said no.

“Get out,” she said. “Go find Annabelle and get out of this arena right now before I have you arrested for harassment.”

She felt his Adam’s apple move under her fingers, and his head flinched up and down. His eyes were almost afraid. She released his collar and turned her back, striding towards the women’s locker room. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears as she turned the knob.

“You’re making a mistake,” Nikolai called after her.

The locker room door clicked shut behind her. She did not look back to see his face. She had nothing to say to him and no reason to see him again. Right now, all she wanted to do was get out of this dress and get a drink with someone very important.

Fedor drained the last of his beer and set the empty glass on the table with a satisfying clink. “So what now?”

Ksenia glanced into the seemingly bottomless glass of amber-colored beer in front of her. They had been sitting in Kolpak Pub for twenty minutes, but she had only downed one-third of her drink. Truth be told, she couldn’t hold her liquor if her life depended on it, and right now, she wanted to be wide awake.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

Fedor sighed and leaned back in the booth. The green and red lights from the fluorescent sign above his head lit up his features. “You know what? That’s okay. Life…it’s not something you can really plan for. I used to think I could, but I was wrong.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I remember that. You used to pack your suitcases a week before competition because you were afraid you’d forget something important. You literally wrote lists of everything you were packing on legal pads. ‘Essential: four pairs of seamless boxers’.”

He blushed, but his mouth broke into a grin. “Yeah, that was pretty bad. But I guess I just learned that you never know what’s going to happen.” He glanced down at the table. “To be honest, I never thought I’d end up skating with you again.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual.” For some reason, she started laughing. “It’s just so weird.”

“Yeah.” He rested his elbows on the table and drummed his fingers on the surface in a slow, steady rhythm. “But in a way, it feels right. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.”

The tenderness in his voice brushed against a tiny, flickering hope in her chest, and she spoke before she could consider the consequences. “Do you ever wish you could just undo the past two years and start fresh? Together?”

Fedor’s hand froze on the tabletop, and his features tightened. He sat perfectly still, his eyes on the empty beer glass. He took a slow, careful breath and exhaled one word. “No.”

Her heart seemed to crash through the roof of a skyscraper and tear its way through endless floors, gaining speed as gravity dragged it to the final drop that would stop its frantic beating once and for all. She had known the answer to this question before she’d said it, but hearing it from his lips was the difference between the diagnosis of a terminal illness and a funeral.

“I don’t regret anything,” he said. “After you went to Perm, I spent so much time wondering if I had made the right decision. Even after I had told the press I was retiring, there was a part of me that didn’t want to let go yet. But in the end, it turned out as it was supposed to.”

“Stop,” she whispered. She felt tears coming, and she wasn’t ready to let herself cry over losing him all over again. “Please stop. I don’t think I can take this.”

“Just listen to me!” He leaned in, staring straight at her now, but she dropped her head, afraid to meet his eyes and see only coldness. “If I stayed, I would only be holding you back. No matter how skilled I might be, I could never have that Olympic flame in my chest like you do. I couldn’t make myself want it enough. And I couldn’t let you pull the weight of two people’s dreams.”

She put her head in her hands and focused on delaying each breath, begging her heart to hold on and not cry until she had left the pub. She couldn’t hear him talk about how hard it had been to leave her, only to tell her at the end that it had been the most freeing decision of her life. She couldn’t hear him say how happy he was living without her.

“So I walked out,” he said. “I walked out of that rink because I knew there was nothing left for us as a competitive pair. I needed to get away from the sport in that way, figure out what I wanted to do with my life. And honestly, I still don’t know yet.” His voice softened, laced with a deep ache. “But when you came into that practice rink for the first time, I suddenly realized this was how it was meant to be. I needed to let you go so we could get to this moment, right here, right now.”

Her throat flooded with emotion, and her head shot up. “And what do you want from this moment? If you cared about me, how could you leave me like that?”

“Ksenia, please!” His eyes were full of desperation, begging her to listen. “I left because you deserved better.”

A tear scorched down her cheek and stung her lip, leaving a cold streak under her eye. “What are you saying?”

“You deserved someone who still loved skating as much as you did. No matter what, I couldn’t be that person anymore.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever known, and you deserved more than half a man.”

“Fedya,” she whispered. Speaking the name tore a sob from her lungs, and she covered her mouth. She hadn’t called him Fedya since that day in the hospital room two years ago, and it sent years of memories racing through her mind and coursing into her bloodstream.

He lay one hand over hers and spoke with a quiet yet reverberating earnestness that slipped through the chaos to the clearest sliver of her mind. “Ksenia, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you like that. I had to lose you to understand how much I needed you.”

Ksenia sobbed harder, her throat burning with a thousand emotions. Since the day he had left, she had hated him for dissolving the partnership. Isolated in frigid Perm, trying to teach poor Novoselov the choreography of their short program for the hundredth time, she had filled her mind with a delusional fantasy. She’d imagined that if Fedor had just stayed for another four years, if he hadn’t been so selfish, they would’ve become Olympic and World champions. In her mind, they would’ve skated perfectly at every competition, suffered no injuries, and never spoken a harsh word to each other.

But that wouldn’t have happened at all. She would’ve been dragging him around each practice, yelling at him when he looked ready to give up. As time passed, he would start to resent her a bit more, feeling suffocated by her demands and constant frustration. Injuries and mistakes would inevitably come next. And one day, even the smallest disagreement would cut the last string that held them together, severing their partnership until they could never bear to look at each other again.

If Fedor had stayed, they wouldn’t be sitting here in his pub tonight. They wouldn’t have skated that wonderful performance a few hours ago. She would’ve never agreed to sign up for the show with him in the first place. In fact, she would’ve probably grown so dissatisfied with skating that she might’ve abandoned skating once and for all.

“Ksenia, please,” said Fedor. “Say something. I don’t expect you to forgive me or even speak to me again. Just tell me what I can do to help!”

She lifted her head slowly and wiped the dampness from her cheek. Her voice trembled, but she met his eyes. “I understand.”

“I’m so sorry.” He shook his head at himself. “I should’ve told you sooner. You must think I’m such an idiot.”

A dry laugh rumbled in her throat. “Only a little.”

His face relaxed in pure relief. “Honestly, I deserve worse than that.”

She tilted her head back and let herself look at his kind, boyish face. She had spent two years learning to stand without him standing a step behind, to fly without his steady wings supporting her. She had never admitted that was the hardest part of the whole ordeal. It had taken months to rid herself of the feeling that half of her was missing, that she had left behind a piece of her soul when she’d left him. Slowly, the staggering pain had eased into a dull ache caught beneath her ribs until she didn’t need him so desperately anymore. She had finally learned to breathe without him.

But she didn’t want to.

“So what are you going to do now that the show’s over?” she said. It was a ridiculously stupid question, but what felt even more ridiculously stupid was the crackling silence between them.

He ran his hand through his hair, then clasped it on the table. “Well, I have a training camp in Austria in a week. It’s an ISU development project—they asked me to teach lifts to some junior pairs from across Europe.” He sighed and ran his finger along the edge of his empty glass. “Seeing all those young people learning how to do these techniques…I can’t even describe how good that feels. I know it doesn’t mean much in the whole world, but it feels like I’m doing something right.”

The simple joy in his voice filled her heart with an unfamiliar softness, and she reached across the table to grasp his hands. “You are. And I’m so happy for you.”

Two hours later, they came through the front doors of the hotel, tired but cheerful and a little tipsy. Ksenia was laughing as Fedor recounted a story from a training camp in Italy, where one of his students thought it would be fun to tuck a frog under his pillow.

They entered the alcove of the lobby, where six elevators with gleaming doors waited to carry them to their separate floors.

“Well, I guess this is our stop,” she said.

She took one step towards the elevator, but Fedor caught her elbow and turned her around. She was suddenly aware of how close he was standing. It was not an uncomfortable feeling.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for letting me tell you the truth.”

She swallowed, trying to find the right words to reply, but he interrupted her with a kiss on the cheek. The delicate hairs of his beard skimmed her skin like a paintbrush stroke, quick and light. With one last smile, he turned around to face the other set of elevators and pushed the button to go up.

Ksenia watched him for a moment, then pressed her thumb against the button on the opposite side. The doors of his elevator slid open, and he stepped inside, glancing back at her to smile before the heavy panels glided shut between them.

Ten seconds later, a perky ding startled her from her daze, and she boarded her own elevator. When she had signed up for the show, her main goal was to survive the performance and get away from Fedor without speaking more than ten words to him. It was over now, and tomorrow they would leave the hotel and go back to their own separate lives.

She didn’t know if she would see him again. She had no idea if they would ever end up skating another show together, or grabbing another beer, or having another conversation about anything that mattered. But if he flew to Austria next week and never came back, she would remember him as someone she had cared about, and someone who had cared about her more than she deserved.

And she still had his phone number tattooed into her brain, along with dozens of happy memories she had shut away in the shadowy closet in her mind. Tomorrow morning, she would unpack them one by one, and if she really wanted to reminisce with someone, she might just give him a call.


End file.
